


Handled

by jujus_writing_corner



Series: Whumptober 2020 [6]
Category: Real Person Fiction, Youtube RPF
Genre: Amputation, Blood, Gen, Gore, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Imprisonment, Torture, Whumptober 2020, hand trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:53:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26869225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujus_writing_corner/pseuds/jujus_writing_corner
Summary: Dr. Iplier's been kidnapped by the father of a recently deceased patient, who's determined to make sure he never practices medicine again.Whumptober 2020 Day 6: Please...Prompt: “Stop, please”
Series: Whumptober 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947961
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Handled

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the title is a pun. I'm rude as hell XD 
> 
> Enjoy!

Dr. Iplier sighs, wondering how the hell it came to this. How losing a patient that was already beyond saving two months ago led to him being stuck in this cold, windowless basement, handcuffed around a pillar.

He’s only been here for a couple hours – at least, he thinks, it might only feel that long – and his shoulders are already starting to hurt, wrenched back as they are with his hands forced behind himself around the wide pillar. The man who kidnapped him, Roger, is somewhere upstairs. Dr. Iplier can hear him pacing, hear him opening and shutting drawers, probably trying to figure out what to do next.

It’s not like Dr. Iplier doesn’t understand his grief. He only feels a fraction of it whenever Yandere gets hurt, he can’t imagine losing his child the way Roger has. To want someone to blame is perfectly reasonable. To blame the doctor who couldn’t save the day is expected.

But to drag that doctor into a basement at knifepoint and chain him there is extreme, even for the most bereaved parent.

Dr. Iplier has no more time to think about it, as he hears Roger’s footsteps coming down the stairs. He has some items in his arms; a toolbox, a knife block, a tarp. He places these things near Dr. Iplier and goes elsewhere in the basement, looking for something.

“Roger?” Dr. Iplier says, voice smaller than he intended. Roger doesn’t answer, only mumbles to himself.

“Where was it…” he says, rummaging somewhere out of Dr. Iplier’s line of sight. “Ah, here,” he eventually says, and returns with a chain and stake, like one would use to keep a dog in their yard.

“Roger, please,” Dr. Iplier pleads, “You can still let me go. You can let me go and I’ll say nothing. I’ll tell my family I found a car crash or something and stopped to help, and that’s why it took me so long to get home. It’s not too late to stop this.”

“Be quiet,” Roger snaps, “I’m going to take one of the handcuffs off. You better not run.”

Dr. Iplier looks at the knife block on the ground, and nods, knowing he has no choice.

Roger does as he said he would, uncuffing Dr. Iplier’s right hand and then tightening the one on the left. Not enough to hurt much, but enough to impede most movement. He closes the now-empty cuff on nothing, but feeds the end of the dog chain through it. He takes the end of it, intended to clip to a dog’s collar, and clips it to the nearest chainlink, tethering the cuff and chain together. After grabbing duct tape out of his toolbox, he takes the remainder of the chain and winds it around the pillar. Finally, he tapes the chain to the pillar with duct tape, preventing it from unraveling. Dr. Iplier hazards a tug with his left hand, but the jury-rigged system holds fast. But with his right hand free, he could pull off the tape or unclip the end of the chain, freeing himself up enough to escape. There’s no way Roger would leave him like that.

“Stop messing with that,” Roger growls upon seeing Dr. Iplier tug the chain, “Or you’re getting hurt sooner.”

Sooner? Dr. Iplier’s heart beats a little faster as Roger unfolds and spreads out the tarp he’s brought, near and around Dr. Iplier. He stares at him pointedly, and Dr. Iplier stands as much as he can, allowing Roger to put the tarp beneath him as well. Dr. Iplier doesn’t know what the tarp is for, but realizes he doesn’t exactly want to.

“This all could’ve been avoided if you’d saved Kelsey,” Roger mutters, returning to his toolbox and pulling out a mallet.

“I wish I could’ve saved her,” Dr. Iplier murmurs, and even now, that’s still true. “She didn’t deserve to die like that.”

“You’re a doctor!” Roger spits with sudden venom, “Your job is to save people! Yet you just let her die!!”

“I didn’t, Roger!” Dr. Iplier cries, “I tried to save her, I did everything I could! She was beyond saving, there was too much damage!”

“You could’ve, you…” Roger gasps. He turns away, face screwed up with pain. Dr. Iplier can’t help but feel for him.

“Roger, I told you then that I was sorry, and I still am.” Dr. Iplier speaks calmly but lets his sympathy come through. “I still think about her. But not even the best doctor in the world could’ve saved her. You saw her, Roger, you remember–”

“Shut up!” Roger snaps, whipping back to Dr. Iplier, face contorted with rage. “I’m tired of your excuses!! Now…” He approaches Dr. Iplier with the mallet in his hand. “I said I was going to make you pay, and now I will.”

“Roger?” Dr. Iplier gasps, dread creeping over him.

“You don’t deserve to be a doctor,” Roger growls, grabbing Dr. Iplier’s arm and forcing his hand onto the tarp, “And you can’t be a doctor without your hand.”

“No–!” Dr. Iplier shouts, fiercely struggling to pull his hand away.

“I’ll smash this over your head if you don’t stop moving!!” Roger yells.

“Don’t do this,” Dr. Iplier gasps, “Please don’t do this.” He forces himself to stop struggling, but can’t make his body quit shaking.

“You lost your chance when I lost my daughter,” Roger mutters, before raising the mallet above his head.

He brings it down on Dr. Iplier’s wrist as hard as he can.

Dr. Iplier screams, howling as white hot pain rockets up his arm as the bones of his wrist shatter. His wrist flattens and deforms, red and purple spread across the area as blood wells up under his skin. Roger hits him again, and Dr. Iplier screams again, feeling awful pops and snaps in his wrist. Bits of bone are exposed now, blood leaks out from the gashes they leave behind. One more whack and Dr. Iplier is in too much pain to scream, his vision blinks out for a moment as the agony steals his breath. When he can see again, he finds his wrist is nothing but a flattened, shredded mess, made of blood and bone fragments. His right hand is turning blue as the blood that should be flowing into it spills out onto the tarp. Dr. Iplier tries to move his fingers, and finds that he can’t feel his hand enough to do it. He sobs, not just from the pain. Roger merely nods. There’s specks of Dr. Iplier’s blood on his shirt.

“That was to make the next part easier,” Roger says, stepping away to put the mallet back in the toolbox. He moves to the knife block as Dr. Iplier sobs, and Dr. Iplier already knows what’s coming.

“Stop, please,” he gasps, vision blurring with tears. He can still see Roger approach him again, but he can’t see well enough to tell what kind of knife he’s holding.

Roger doesn’t even answer. He only starts cutting.

Dr. Iplier thinks he screams. He doesn’t know for sure. He can’t think, he can’t see, he can’t perceive anything but the agony of the knife sawing through his ruined flesh. The pain ratchets as the knife goes through the last bone fragments holding the wrist together, before crescendoing into fire as nerves are severed. Something is moved away and air hits new parts of his wound, making him jolt. When he can finally blink through the pain to see again, his wrist is a ruined stump, and his right hand is being carried across the room and thrown into a garbage bag by Roger.

“I might let you go in a day or two,” Roger says, “Haven’t decided. I’ll think about whether this is enough punishment.”

Dr. Iplier is too winded and in too much pain to respond. He slumps over, unable to lie down completely thanks to the chain, and pants as he watches Roger pack up his things and leave the basement, shutting the door behind him.

“Fuck,” Dr. Iplier moans.

The messy stump where his hand used to be is still sluggishly bleeding, adding to the already impressive amount of blood on the tarp. and Dr. Iplier wonders how long it’ll take for the bleeding to stop on its own, if it ever will. He’s hardier than the average human, more difficult to kill, but he’s not invincible. If he doesn’t stop bleeding or the open wound gets infected, it could kill him easily. If he did die, he could possibly come back, but he’s not the most popular figment around. Returning from the dead is never guaranteed, even more so for a less-loved figment like Dr. Iplier.

He can only hope that the others find him before that happens.

Dr. Iplier tries to stay awake, fearing what might happen if he falls asleep. He thinks over what he would do to repair the damage to his wrist if he had a patient with the same injury, how he’d cut away the dead tissue, how many stitches he’d need to cover the wound, what kind of follow-up the patient would need, what complications could arise and how he’d fix those, too.

But the stump doesn’t stop bleeding, doesn’t stop throbbing with sharp, angry pulses, and Dr. Iplier can’t fight against his body for long. His eyes close against his will, his body leans back against the pillar without his say-so, and thoughts of surgery fall out of his mind to be replaced with the void of sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please leave a comment! They absolutely make my day :'3


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